


The One You Love

by TsaritsaElena



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TsaritsaElena/pseuds/TsaritsaElena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking after Steve and going to Dodgers games together: the more things change, the more they stay the same. Bucky has always loved Steve, but when is he going to do something about it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Then

**Author's Note:**

> **Inspired by**[Gravevyxen’s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GraveVyxen/) **headcanon:** _Bucky’s favorite memory of his time with Steve was taking Steve to a ball game with his work bonus and being able to buy him a hotdog and a soda, and pretending to be on a little date without repercussions._ I’m not actually sure I’ve done justice to her headcanon, but within minutes of reading it, this entire fic came to me spontaneously, so I credit it as the inspiration for this fic.
> 
>  **Spoilers for:** The identity of the Winter Soldier.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I don’t own any of these characters or copyrighted material, and I’m certainly not making any money or other material profit off of this fanfiction. No copyright infringement is intended.

_In my heart I have but one desire_  
 _And that one is you_  
 _No other will do_  
 _–The Inkspots_

The sun was still high, the heat of late May was sweltering, and it was the end of another long week working down at the docks. It was payday, so Bucky lined up with the rest of the guys to get his paycheck, shuffling forward in line as his supervisor handed them out.

The trouble was, the longer he stood there, the more uneasy he grew. The clerk who processed the checks always arranged them in alphabetical order, so usually Bucky was one of the first to receive his. Then he would high-tail it out of there, eager to buy a drink after work or get ready for a hot date. Not today, it seemed.

He watched and waited as his supervisor called out “Bailey!” followed by “Benjamin!” and “Campbell!” The other guys started giving Bucky looks, some curious, some worried, and some with sympathy written all over their faces. Bucky knew what those worried and sympathetic looks meant and he didn’t like them one bit. He tried very hard not to think about what they meant as his supervisor went through his stack of envelopes and the crowd of men grew thinner and thinner until it was just Bucky left, and no more envelopes.

 _“No_ ,” Bucky thought to himself, even as his heart dropped into his stomach. “ _This can’t be happening_.” Instantly he thought of all the bills that needed paying, the rent that was due in another week, and the groceries he wasn’t sure he and Steve could afford if he got laid off from this job.

“Barnes!” his supervisor barked, calling him to attention. “Come with me.”

“Yes, sir!” Bucky gulped, following Mr. Mitchell back to the big warehouse building. A few stragglers shot him what were definitely sympathetic looks, and Bucky hated that. “ _Well, this is it_ ,” he thought to himself, resigned. Mr. Mitchell was the new supervisor in charge of the docks. He’d only been there about a month and he’d already let a couple of the guys go. It looked like Bucky was going to be the next victim of a change in management.

Mr. Mitchell led him into a back office, positioning himself behind the desk while he gestured for Bucky to take a seat on the other side. It made Bucky feel like he was a kid again, called down to the principal’s office for one offense or another. To have that feeling again in his employer’s office was not a good thing.

“Sir, I—”Bucky opened his mouth to argue his position, to give Mr. Mitchell reasons not to let him go, when a hand stopped him.

“You don’t even know why you’re here, Barnes. Let me do the talking,” Mr. Mitchell instructed him in his low, gravelly voice. “You’ve been working these docks close to five years now. That right?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky confirmed for him. He’d been working the docks the last five years, ever since he was out of high school and needed a job quick as he could. It had been the height of the Depression, so they’d only hired him part time in the beginning—Bucky ran around doing odd jobs to make up the extra pay—but he’d stuck around long enough to get a full-time spot down at the docks, and he was doing alright. (By “doing alright,” Bucky meant that he and Steve could afford the rent and pay the bills for their crappy apartment, even if they still had to skimp on groceries, clothes, and everything else.)

“And you’ve been paid the same rate ever since then?”

Bucky shook his head. “No, sir. I got the same raises as everyone else when they introduced the minimum wage law and when they raised it five cents.” He’d been lucky not to be let go both times.

“But not since?”

“That’s right.”

“Then it’s about time you got one, don’t you think?”

“Sir?” Bucky questioned with hopeful confusion. About five minutes ago, he thought he was being let go, and now the boss wanted to give him a raise? This was like a dream. A crazy, terrific dream. He surreptitiously pinched himself to make sure it wasn’t so.

“I got a lot of strong guys down here, but none as quick as you. I’ve seen the way you work. Very... creative with the crates,” he smiled wryly. “Efficient. I like efficiency and I like hard workers. I want the whole crew to be as efficient as you. Most of the fellas in your shifts are your age or younger. I’d like to put you in charge of the men during both your shifts, starting Monday. Supervise how they’re doing, help make ‘em more efficient during our big peak hours. Pays fifty-five cents an hour. Whaddya say?”

Bucky struggled hard not to let his jaw drop on the floor. Quickly doing some rough math, with that kind of raise he’d be getting paid a little over twelve dollars extra, a week! “Thank you, sir. I’ll be here bright and early, Monday morning. I won’t let you down!”

His boss chuckled. “See that you don’t. I’ll go over what I want you to do on Monday and let the other men know. Oh, before I forget, this is for you.” Mr. Mitchell handed over the envelope with Bucky’s paycheck inside.

Bucky immediately tore open the envelope, but his eyes almost bugged out when he saw the amount written on the check. There was twelve whole dollars extra written in there! Bucky had worked a few extra hours at the docks that week, but certainly not enough to merit that kind of money.

For a brief moment, he considered taking the money and running, but apparently the nuns had instilled some sense of honesty in him while he was growing up in the orphanage (or else Bucky knew Steve would make him return the money anyway), because he looked back up at Mr. Mitchell and reluctantly admitted, “I, uh, I think the secretary made a mistake when she was writin’ my paycheck. There’s more in here than I worked. Thought you should know.” Reluctantly, he thrust the piece of paper at his superior.

The older man surveyed the check but handed it back to Bucky gently. “No mistake here, son. You done good work out there this week, volunteerin’ for those extra hours when we really needed the help, and you’ve been working hard for a while. That’s why I’m promoting you. Consider this a little back-pay for the work you been doin’. Now get outta here, it’s Saturday night!”

Bucky didn’t need to be told twice, thanking Mr. Mitchell again and practically skipping as he left work. The whole way home, he kept thinking of the twelve whole dollars and what he could do with it.

He’d have enough to pay the last of Steve’s prescription bills, the ones Steve didn’t know he had because Bucky refused to tell Steve he’d worked out a payment plan with the pharmacy when Steve was on death’s door and needed the medicine badly. He lived together with Steve, and it wasn’t like Steve didn’t pull his weight, contributing to their apartment, but he wasn’t built like Bucky. He couldn’t lift heavy crates down at the docks where the jobs were most plentiful, and anyways, he got sick easily and as generous as Bucky’s boss was, he didn’t take kindly to men calling in sick. Steve often worked odd jobs for the grocer down the street, and sometimes got paid on commission for his artwork (usually when the newspaper or DC comics needed a substitute political cartoonist or panel sketch artist for the week), but it didn’t pay as consistently as Bucky’s work and neither of their salaries were enough when Steve caught bronchitis.

Bucky shook his head to clear the thought of a sickly Steve. Trying for something happier, Bucky thought of what else he could buy with twelve dollars. It would be enough to buy meat more than once every couple of weeks. Steve could make his famous pot roast on Sundays, just the way they both liked it.

Finally, with the twelve extra dollars, he and Steve would have enough to turn on the heat come winter. Then Bucky frowned, realizing he wouldn’t have an excuse to sleep next to Steve at night on the coldest winter nights, pressing in close to keep Steve warm so he wouldn’t shiver or, God forbid, get sick. Then again, Steve might appreciate being able to sleep a winter’s night to himself. Just because _Bucky_ had a crush on Steve didn’t mean his best friend and roommate returned the feeling, or heck, was even attracted to other men.

Sometimes Bucky considered telling Steve that some of the dames he went home with on a Friday night, when Steve was sick or just wanted to stay in, were actually fellas, but then he worried that would lead to awkward questions about the way Bucky knew he looked at Steve sometimes, like Steve was his whole world and the only person who mattered. It was the truth, anyway. Bucky had fallen in love with Steve a long time ago, before he knew what falling in love was supposed to feel like, and maybe even from the first time he saw scrappy little Steve Rogers facing down three kids in a back alley at the age of twelve. Even then he knew Steve was somethin’ special.  Most days he kept a lid on it, squashed those thoughts down and pushed them to the back of his mind, never willing to risk Steve finding out. Bucky would rather die than admit to his feelings and jeopardize his friendship with Steve.

He manifested his feelings for Steve in other ways, taking care of him when he was sick, saving up to buy Steve a real present for his birthday or Christmas (of course, Steve did the same for him), and always rescuing Steve from fights with guys bigger than Steve, the kind who were all muscle but didn’t have two working brain cells to rub together.  

Bucky was still thinking about what he was going spend this week’s bonus on when he walked past Prospect Park on his way home. He saw a bunch of kids playing baseball and suddenly he knew what he was going to do with the extra cash: he’d treat Steve to a baseball game. It had been ages since they last went, and Bucky knew how much Steve loved a good Dodgers’ game.

With that decided, it wasn’t much further to his and Steve’s sixth floor walk-up at the top of the apartment building. As soon as he walked into their tiny apartment, the aroma of caramelized onions hit his nose. “Smells good,” he said, approaching the kitchen where Steve was stirring a pot on the stove.

“It’s almost ready. Five more minutes,” he said, turning off the stove to let the mixture simmer in its own heat; it saved gas that way. “Here, try it.” An ordinary friend would have held out the wooden spoon for Bucky to grasp himself, but this was Steve and they knew each other like the backs of their hand, so Steve just held the wooden spoon up to Bucky’s lips like it was nothing, letting Bucky taste.

Bucky chewed while Steve regarded him with a look that he had to remind himself was nothing more than friendly, waiting for Bucky’s reaction. “Mmm. Pasta, tomato sauce, and white kidney beans. This Italian?”

Steve nodded. “I got the recipe from Clara Cappellini down the hall. She can cook with next to nothing,” he said appreciatively. Money was usually tight and they both knew how hard Steve worked to make their grocery budget go, even sharing part of a community garden plot so they could save on produce. The first month of living together, they learned quickly that Bucky burnt just about everything that he tried to cook with, so Steve pretty much exclusively did the cooking for them, except when he was sick. At this point, Steve could cook potatoes fifty different ways, pickle or can practically any vegetable, and make even dandelion leaves look appetizing for salad.

“Good for Clara,” and Bucky meant it. The whole building knew how many mouths that poor girl had to feed just by the noise they made, “but pretty soon you won’t have to worry about that.”

Steve furrowed his brow, not sure what Bucky was getting at. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

Bucky shoved the check under Steve’s nose, who took it from him to inspect. He waited for Steve to read the sum on it and he knew when Steve had, because Steve sucked in a gasp. “This amount... you sure this is right?”

Grinning from ear to ear, Bucky nodded. “New boss said it was a bonus. Also said he was gonna promote me _and_ give me a raise, Steve. Fifty-five cents an _hour_.”

“That’s—”

“—Twelve bucks more a week,” Bucky interrupted, impatient to tell him. Steve whistled appreciatively. Bucky added excitedly, “Just think of what we can do with that!”

“You mean what _you_ can do with that,” Steve reminded him. “You’re the one who earned it.” He began ladling out the pasta fagioli in bowls, handing each one to Bucky, who promptly set them on the kitchen table while Steve ran the tap to fetch them each a glass of cold water.

They sat down to eat and Bucky explained how the new boss thought he’d be a good fit overseeing some of the logistics down at the docks and making sure things were running smoothly. Bucky talked about what he was thinking of doing with the extra money, asking for Steve’s input even though Steve’s general response was, “It’s your money, you do what you want with it.”

Still, Bucky knew Steve like the back of his hand, knew that a sweep of Steve’s eyes downward meant he didn’t like an idea, and the slight raise of his chin combined with an upward glance meant that he did. After getting as much input from Steve as he could, Bucky helped him wash up in the kitchen.

“Well, I know the first thing I’m going to do with it,” Bucky said, referring to his bonus for the week.

“What’s that?” Steve asked, handing him another dish to be wiped down.

“Dodgers game!” Bucky grinned widely. “We missed today’s game, but they’re playin’ the Phillies tomorrow at Ebbets field. It’s my treat. Whaddya say, Steve?”

Steve, who liked Dodgers games more than Bucky did, merely “hmmed,” as he rinsed another dish out.

Bucky knew what that meant: sometimes Steve put up a real fight when it came to putting in his fair share and paying his way, especially when it came to being sick and paying for treatment, even though Bucky was the one who made more and would gladly pay anything to see Steve get better. Bucky really did want to take Steve out to a ball game. Hell, if he was a millionaire that would be the first thing he did: take Steve out to as many Dodgers games as he could, just to see Steve smile.

“Aw, c’mon Steve,” Bucky nudged him. “We haven’t gone in ages. You said it was my bonus and I could spend it however I wanted. Well I wanna go to a ball game with my best friend tomorrow.”

Steve sighed and Bucky knew what that meant too: Steve hated it when Bucky used that kind of logic on him. “Okay. We’ll go to the game tomorrow. And—” he paused, “—thanks,” he finished softly.

Bucky noticed Steve blushing, looking slightly embarrassed, but he chose not to comment on it. Instead, he crowed triumphantly, “It’s gonna be great! Just you wait and see.”

After putting away the last of the dishes, Steve gathered up his art supplies while Bucky grabbed the radio and opened the window to the fire escape. With both of them on the landing, Bucky gestured for Steve to go first. “After you.”

Art supplies carefully tucked away in a satchel slung over his shoulder, Steve climbed up the fire escape with ease, signaling for Bucky to join him once he reached the rooftop. Bucky followed, holding the radio by the handle and taking care not to bang it against the ladder too much. Once he reached the top, Bucky breathed in a lungful of fresh air. Well, as fresh as one could get in Brooklyn, but it was an improvement over the stuffy air inside. Out here, at least there was a breeze to counteract the sweltering heat.

Steve pulled over the two folding chairs they had stored under the awning of the rooftop shed and they settled into their summer Saturday night routine. Bucky fiddled with the radio dial before setting it on the ground between their two chairs so that they could both hear the broadcast equally well.

For the first half-hour, they listened to the news, which spoke of the growing war in Europe, and the endless struggles that still came with a languishing economy. Steve only half-listened, using most of his concentration for drawing in his sketchpad, while Bucky absently tossed a baseball up and down, one that he’d left up here, catching it with a rhythmic predictability.

Once the news was over, Steve set aside his sketchbook and Bucky put down his baseball so that they could tune in to the half-hour broadcast of _Fibber McGee and Molly_. Steve and Bucky laughed at some of the jokes or shook their heads at others, catching each other’s eye and sharing in the running gags made by the radio show.

“Man, Fibber McGee never learns,” Bucky said, shaking his head. “He shoulda just bought a cake for Molly instead of trying to make one. Or get one of the neighbors to do it, like I did for your birthday.”

“You got one of our neighbors to bake it for you? You said you made that cake yourself!” Steve sounded mildly scandalized that Bucky had lied about the cake, though his tone was still light.

“Oops?” He shrugged. The cat was out of the bag now. “I thought I told you that. Ask Clara Cappellini the next time you want baked goods.”

“What’d you do for her in return?”

“Gave her a whole day off from looking after those brats she has for siblings and cousins. Took ‘em to the park and let ‘em wear themselves out.”

“That was nice of you. I guess that’s alright, then,” Steve relented. As they looked out to the horizon, he became distracted. “Oh wow. The sunset looks really great today. Lemme try to get this.”

They easily broke off the conversation and Bucky watched as Steve rummaged in his art satchel for his oil pastels. Then Bucky switched the radio to a music station while Steve set out his pastels, Steve working quickly to capture the brilliant oranges and reds that tinged the sky as the sun began to set. Steve largely ignored Bucky in favor of capturing the landscape before him and Bucky stole glances at him when he thought Steve wasn’t looking.

He loved the way Steve looked when he was absorbed in his work. Bucky's eyes traced a line down Steve’s form, starting with the pink tongue that darted out from his mouth as he concentrated on his work, head bent forward. They darted to Steve’s jawline with an ever present five o’clock shadow, down the long column of his throat, adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow, and—

Bucky looked away and closed his eyes just in time, so that when Steve flicked his head up to reference the skyline, all he saw was his best friend, half-dozing, half-listening to the radio, and none the wiser to Bucky’s stolen glances and less-than-wholesome thoughts of him. He wanted to do wicked, unholy things with Steve, to kiss his jawline until it bruised and to feel the hot press of Steve inside of him, rocking back and forth into the spot that made Bucky see stars while he called out Steve’s name.

Wanting to do that would have been one thing that he could live with. After all, that was what he did with the men he slept with and he didn’t feel conflicted about that. But it was the other thoughts, the other things he wanted to do with Steve—waking up and having breakfast in bed together, holding hands down the street, going out to dinner and then dancing afterwards, just the two of them—that he had to keep hidden, deep inside. No matter how much he loved Steve, he knew that could never happen for them, first of all because that’s not the way the world worked, and second of all because it was _Steve_ , and having Steve remain in his life wasn’t worth the risk of telling him the truth.

All too soon, the sky grew dark. Steve worked furiously with the last vestiges of light, smudging oil pastels across the paper to record the fading light of the sunset onto the paper.

“I think I just about got it,” Steve said happily, stowing away his art supplies.

“Yeah? I’ll take a look when we get inside.”

After it was completely dark out, they remained outside for a while, content to talk amongst themselves and enjoy the cool night breeze a while longer. When the hour grew late, they finally got up and stowed the chairs back under the awning of the locked storage shed.

They went down the fire escape in reverse order, Bucky first with the radio in hand. Flicking a switch in the kitchen, he set the radio on the countertop and went back out to the fire escape for the next part. Steve carefully leaned over the edge of the roof and gently handed Bucky his sketchbook, the page with the sunset on top. Well versed in the procedure for oil pastels by now, Bucky was careful not to touch the piece of art, lest he smudge Steve’s work. He climbed through the window again and laid the artwork on the kitchen table.

Steve followed just a minute later, not bothering to close the window after himself. Even this late at night the heat was unbearable and, coming back inside their sixth floor apartment, it was still sweltering.

“I think this is your best one yet,” Bucky declared as he heard Steve come up behind him.

“There are a few mistakes here and here,” Steve pointed to them with a pastel-streaked finger, “but I’m pretty happy with this one. I’ll frame it with cardboard tomorrow.”

After that, Bucky and Steve took turns in the bathroom and then they both stripped down to their briefs, long used to the routine of sleeping with as little on as possible on days such as these. Their beds, devoid of top sheets and blankets, were already pushed as close to the bedroom windows as possible (Bucky had to prop his window open with a piece of wood; the sill was jammed and the landlord refused to fix it) to let what little breeze there was come in and cool the room.

It was a familiar night time ritual on hot evenings, and one that they completed in comfortable silence, dancing around each other like actors completing the moves to a choreographed routine. As the last steps in their routine, Steve asked if he could turn out the light and when Bucky gave a nod, the flick of a switch darkened the room considerably, if not completely. The glow of the street lamps came in through the open windows and Bucky watched as Steve easily found his way back to his bed.

“’Night, Bucky,” Steve said, turning over to face away from Bucky.

“Goodnight, Steve,” he returned. Bucky reluctantly tore his gaze away from Steve’s body and turned away to do the same. He put away his stray thoughts of Steve and tried to get some shut eye. 

 

The sky was clear blue, and a freak rainstorm last night—which left Steve and Bucky waking up to wet droplets on their pillows in the wee hours of the morning—had brought the humidity and the temperature down to a still hot, but more manageable level.

They went to church—Bucky could really give a fig, though, so it was mostly on Steve’s insistence and the knowledge that their neighbors would gossip if they didn’t—and came back to change out of their suits and Sunday shoes before heading out to the ballpark.

As they took the subway out to Ebbets Field, Steve listened while Bucky ran his mouth about going to see the game and getting a hot dog and asking Steve, “Say, when was the last time we went to see the Dodgers?”

“Not since last season, Bucky,” Steve replied, his smile matching Bucky’s.

“It’s gonna be great, just you wait!”

It wasn’t long before they arrived at Ebbetts field and lined up, waiting to buy tickets for the game.

“That’ll be $2.20 for both you fellas,” the attendant told him. Huh. Tickets had gone up ten cents since last year. Bucky shouldn’t have been surprised. Ever since the war in Europe started a few years ago, inflation was rising like crazy, and boy did Bucky and Steve know it, from their rent to their grocery bills. Their wages hadn’t risen with it, either. Despite all that, Bucky proudly handed over the money, feeling a little thrill from being able to pay for Steve.

As Bucky handed one of the tickets over to his friend, Steve said, “ _General admission_? You didn’t have to, Bucky.”

“Sure, but I wanted to,” Bucky replied as casually as he could manage. And oh, did he want to, not just for himself, but also for Steve. He wanted to pretend this was a date, even if it was only in his mind, and that meant giving Steve the best view general admission could buy. Steve’s eyes softened and he looked like he was getting ready to say something so Bucky cut him off at the pass, “Come on, let’s find a seat.” He slung his arm around Steve, rested a hand on his shoulder, and steered him toward the stadium.

After settling into their seats, they watched the game with great enthusiasm. With few spectators seated nearby, Bucky and Steve were free to cheer on the Dodgers and heckle the Phillies to their hearts content.

“Come on, Camilli, let’s get a homer!” Steve cheered, clapping his hands when the Dodgers were up at bat.

“Hey Warren, my grandma swings better than you!” Bucky hollered at the other team when their player struck out.

The game was a like a rollercoaster when it came to scoring. First the Dodgers were leading, then the Phillies, then the Dodgers again. By the start of the sixth inning, the Dodgers were losing to the Phillies 4-3, but the suspense was half the fun. Bucky knew for a fact that Steve loved cheering for the Dodgers the most when they were the underdogs.

During the bottom of the sixth while the Dodgers were at bat, Bucky excused himself (not that Steve really noticed, too engrossed in the game), and headed for the long line at the concession stand. When he came back twenty minutes later, it was with hot dogs and Coca-Cola for each of them.

“Here,” he said, handing one of each over to Steve. “Thought you might be gettin’ a little hungry, what with all that hollerin’.” He ribbed Steve, jostling him with his elbow.

Steve’s cheeks flushed. “Thanks, Bucky. You didn’t have to,” he said, indicating the hot dog and the coke.

“Sure, but I wanted to,” he said earnestly. Bucky felt pleased with himself, from being able to share a day at the ballpark with Steve and treat him to a hot dog. It wasn’t a date, of course, but if Bucky could have made it into one, if he thought Steve would ever agree to that sort of thing, he would have done it in a heartbeat.

They settled back into an easy silence, eating their hot dogs slowly to savor each bite. Steve, of course, cheered between mouthfuls as the players up at bat made one successful run after another.

“Looks like our boys are makin’ a comeback,” Bucky commented, slapping Steve on the back. Steve flashed him a quick smile before returning his attention to the game, cheering on the next player running up to home.

During a lull as one of the players, Reiser, prepared to go up to bat, Steve set down his coke on the bench and turned to Bucky, leaning in to look up at him. “You know, I had a good time today. This was real nice. Thanks, Bucky.”

In that moment, the thoughtful, sincere expression on Steve’s face captured everything about him that Bucky loved. He felt his heart clench something awful and his brain froze momentarily, unable to come up with something adequate to say in return.

“Don’t mention it,” Bucky choked out, trying for what he hoped was a casual tone and a smile.

Steve was still staring at him and briefly, for just a split second, Bucky had the irrational urge to kiss Steve then and there. It was a stupid, impulsive idea that could get them arrested if anyone in the crowd saw and cared to put up a fuss, and never mind that, he didn’t know what Steve’s reaction would be. The thought of losing Steve, of irreparably shattering the friendship between them with his stupid impulsivity was paralyzing.

Far off in the distance he heard a _crack_ , and then the low buzzing of the crowd grew and grew, erupting into a roar as the ball soared into the outfield. Steve jerked back first, turning to see what the commotion was about.

Just like that, the spell was broken.

An outfielder for the Phillies dropped the ball, scrambling to throw it toward the infield while the Dodgers’ man, Reiser, ran like the wind to make it around the bases. Steve jumped up and out of his seat (mostly because everyone else was on their feet and he could barely see over the crowd), hooting and hollering with the rest of the fans.

Bucky could only watch as Steve clapped and shouted, “Go, go, go! Come on! Make it around!” Bucky was the only one who could hear Steve, his voice lost in the sea of cheers for the Dodgers. As he watched Steve in that moment, Bucky allowed himself just a brief moment of indulgence for that thing he always pushed back down and forbade himself to think about.

He loved Steve. He loved the way Steve cheered on his favorite team with an unbridled enthusiasm for the game. More than that, he loved the way Steve always rooted for the underdog and stood up for those who couldn’t defend themselves, even if he wasn’t much better at taking on the instigator himself. It didn’t matter that Bucky had to bail Steve out of more scraps than he could count, or that he spent a good amount of his time taking care of Steve when he was sick. He’d take care of Steve for the rest of his life if it meant staying with Steve. Bucky admired Steve’s strength to _never_ give up when the chips were down and he admired Steve’s belief in the goodness of others, even though life had dealt him a really shitty hand.

Steve was... _everything_ to Bucky, and he didn’t know what he would do without him.

He loved Steve and Steve could never, ever know. 


	2. Now

_I’ve lost all ambition for worldly acclaim_  
 _I just want to be the one you love_  
 _And with your admission that you feel the same_  
 _I’ll have reached the goal I’m dreaming of_  
 _–The Inkspots_

When Bucky burst into the medical wing of SHIELD’s New York facility after receiving a text from Natasha and saw the look of despair on Stark’s face, his heart almost stopped, and his anxiety was replaced with a sick feeling of dread.

“What’s going on? What happened?!” Bucky shouted angrily, hauling Tony up by his shirt and shaking him roughly. The worst of it all was that Tony didn’t even protest, a haunted look of defeat set in his features as he avoided Bucky’s angry gaze. “Where’s Steve? _What did you do to him?!?_ ”

“That’s _enough_ , Agent Barnes,” said a deep voice from across the room. Bucky looked over to see his handler, Sitwell, standing in the doorway. Bucky didn’t need to be told twice, and he immediately set Tony down, who stumbled before collapsing back into his chair.

Bucky elected to ignore Stark, who still hadn’t said a word, in favor of focusing on his handler. “Steve,” he began to ask desperately, making his way to Sitwell. “Is he gonna be okay? Where is he?”

Sitwell took one look at Bucky and instructed him, “Come with me.”

He led Bucky to a hospital room where Steve lay sleeping, hooked up to machines measuring his breathing and his heart rate. An IV dripped quickly to compensate for his enhanced metabolism. From here, Bucky could see a myriad of cuts and contusions on his face, and Steve’s eye looked swollen, like he had taken a punch to it. A ventilation tube covered his mouth and nose, pumping oxygen into his lungs. The nurses wouldn’t let Bucky inside and Sitwell wouldn’t either, so they stood outside, Bucky watching Steve through the glass.

“How is he?” he asked Sitwell, never taking his eyes off the unconscious form in the other room.

“He’s in critical condition.” _Not good, not good._ Bucky’s heart rate spiked and he shifted from one leg to another, his body jumpy. “Captain Rogers has a broken leg, a broken collar bone, two cracked ribs, severe second—bordering on third—degree burns on his arms and hands, and lung damage from inhaling smoke. He’s on morphine for the pain. We won’t know if he’s out of the woods yet for another hour.”

Bucky let out a choked sob, blinking back tears as he brought a hand up to rub at his face, feeling weary already. “What the hell happened?” he asked in a half-whisper.

Sitwell was silent, then, “We don’t know yet. Stark arrived half an hour ago. He’ll debrief with Fury shortly.”

“I want to be there for it. I wanna know what happened to Steve.”

“That’s against protocol,” Sitwell reminded him, looking over at Bucky. His voice softened, “Even I’m not allowed since I’m not Stark’s handler. It’ll be Stark, Coulson, and Fury. That’s it.”

Bucky worked his jaw, blinking back tears more furiously now as he clenched his fists.

“I’ll see what I can find out from Phil afterwards,” Sitwell offered. “There’s nothing to do but wait until then.”

Sitwell was a good handler. Bucky trusted him and he appreciated his offer to look into it. He nodded once in gratitude. “I think I need to be alone for a while.”

“Of course. I’ll go talk to the nurses. I’ll see if I can get you a five minute visit.” Sitwell clapped his hand on Bucky’s shoulder briefly and then left.

Bucky pulled up a chair and settled in to wait, his thoughts turning over and over in his head. All the fights, asthma attacks, and bouts of pneumonia Steve had gone through before the serum, when Bucky had been scared to death he wouldn’t make it, paled in comparison to this. Steve was a Super Soldier now. Whatever happened to Steve had to be bad, for him to be in this condition. If it had been anyone else, they might have been dead at this point.

Bucky spent an agonizing five minutes watching Steve through the glass without seeing any real change and then had to tear himself away. More than anything else, the not knowing was the worst. Bucky didn’t know if Steve would make it. He didn’t even know what had happened, his mind coming up with gruesome images, each worst than the last.

Suddenly, he stood up, moving deliberately and purposefully as he tried to find himself a secluded corner, eventually heading to the nearest restroom. Taking a page from Clint’s book, Bucky unscrewed the air duct vent with a screwdriver hidden in his arm (the advantages of carrying a repair kit wherever he went) and popped off the cover. He hitched himself up and into the vent and began making his way toward Fury’s office.

Sure enough, Tony was debriefing with Coulson and Fury when he arrived. He peered through the vents and saw Tony hunched forward in his chair while Fury and Coulson both stood over him.

“We were supposed to be meeting a contact that could help us locate Hydra. When we got there... it was a trap. It _was_ Hydra. They ambushed us and we fought them. I thought I had managed to get us away when one of them took a shot at Steve and he... he fell right into their hands. It was like... it was like they knew exactly what I was going to do and they had a plan to stop me.” Tony shook his head. “It was _Hydra._ I didn’t know what they’d do to Steve, or for how long they’d let him live, and I didn’t have time to call for back-up. The facility was small enough that I thought I could handle it. JARVIS sent me the blueprints and I even had a good idea of where they might hold a prisoner.

“I miscalculated,” he said hollowly. “They booby trapped all of the entrances. I thought I had disabled all of the detonation systems, taken out all of the bombs that could go off at a hair’s trigger but... I missed one. It was hiding from the suit’s detectors because the rocks surrounding it deflected its signal and _God damn it_ , I _missed_ one! It started a fire and I knew I didn’t have much time so I began looking for Cap.

“Along the way I found their stash of weapons—guns, missiles, bombs, you name it—but I didn’t have any time to do something about it so I left, still looking for Cap. The fire got to him before I did and when I found him, he was chained up, coughing and wheezing from the smoke. His arms were more burned than they are now and he was teetering on the edge of consciousness even then. After I got him up to altitude, he passed out.

“And that’s when the fire reached the weapons cache and the whole warehouse went sky high. A bunch of Hydra agents were still in it, that I know. I keep thinking, if I had just been a little slower, half a minute behind, I don’t—” Tony broke off, his voice choked up.

“That good enough, Stark,” Coulson said gently, cutting him off. “We have what we need. You can go.”

“It’s _my fault._ I wasn’t fast enough getting us out of there, I wasn’t smart enough to disable all the bombs, I wasn’t quick enough to find him, I—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Fury interrupted sternly. “It wasn’t your fault, Stark, so don’t you go thinking it is.”

 _‘Yes, yes it is,_ ’ Bucky thought to himself. ‘ _You almost got Steve killed, then and there and... it is your fault_.’ He was scared. Scared that Steve was in critical condition and that there wasn’t a damned thing he could do for him now but sit around and wait. So he turned his fear into anger, silently directing it at Tony.

As Coulson ushered Stark out of Fury’s office, Bucky turned around, crawling back the way he came. He retreated back to where Sitwell had left him, in front of Steve’s hospital room, but he wasn’t content to sit outside. Ignoring the shouts and protests of the nurses, Bucky pushed his way into the room, pulling up a chair by Steve’s bedside. In the distance, he saw Sitwell intercept the nurses. Whatever he was saying had the staff calming down and Bucky shot him a look of gratitude, mouthing ‘Thanks,’ to which Sitwell nodded.

He turned his attention back to his best friend, letting his hand rest on top of Steve’s, which was wrapped in gauze. Propping his elbows on the bed, he leaned forward and settled in for a long wait.

 

About an hour later, Steve’s team came in to see him. All except for Tony, that is. Another surge of anger flared up inside Bucky. Stark couldn’t even be bothered to pay a visit to the man he had almost gotten killed today? ‘ _Fuck you, Stark. Fuck you._ ’

Bucky left the room as they filed in, to give each of them space and a moment alone with Steve. Even though he wanted to go for a walk, maybe get something at Starbucks while he was at it, he went to the commissary instead, not willing to risk it in case something happened to Steve. He grabbed a cup of crappy, SHIELD-made coffee, dousing it with sugar.

When he got back, all of the Avengers had filed out, save for Natasha who was clearly waiting for him. “I heard what happened to him,” she said.

“So did I.” At her raised eyebrow, he explained, “Did what Clint woulda done. Snuck into the vents.” Natasha nodded, getting the picture. “You know it’s Stark’s fault, right? He didn’t call for back-up, and it was his stupid mistake that almost got Steve blown to pieces.”

“No. It’s not his fault,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “It’s not his fault and you know it. If you listened in on the debriefing, you know how distraught Tony is over this, and you know he did everything he could. By the time he got to Steve, the ventilation in the Iron Man suit had stopped working. Right when he came in with Steve they treated Tony for smoke inhalation. I know you’re worried about Steve, but taking it out on Tony, unfairly I might add, isn’t going to help. If you want to get angry at someone, let it be Hydra.”

Bucky blew out a breath. He hated it when Nat was right, which was a problem because she was right a good deal of the time, like now. Intellectually, he knew Stark had done what he could for Steve, given the circumstances, but he needed an outlet for his worry and Stark had been the most convenient target. But Nat was right. It was Hydra he should be upset with, and he’d get them back, in time. For now, he needed to focus on Steve and being there for him.

“I hate it when you’re right,” he said petulantly.

She smiled, just a quirk of her mouth upward. “I know you do. Tony’s with Pepper now, but he’s coming by tomorrow when he’s not so shaken. Play nice, will you?” She stared him down until Bucky promised, nodding.

Just then, a doctor came in, two nurses at her side. She glanced at Bucky and Natasha briefly, her lips pursed with a slight frown. It was clear she wanted to say something to them about visitor’s hours, but apparently whatever Sitwell had said was still in effect, so she ignored the two of them in favor of checking Steve’s vitals and reviewing the monitoring outputs from the past hour. Then, because Bucky looked at her expectantly as she was about to leave, she said, “Looks like your friend is out of the woods. He’s in for a long recovery, but his vitals are stable now. He’s going to be fine.”

Bucky blew out his breath and leaned back in his chair, letting his head rest against the back. He barely took note of the doctor and her staff leaving, and then it was just him and Natasha again.

“I’m heading back to the tower,” she said, referring to Stark Tower where she lived with the other Avengers.

“I’m staying here,” he said, answering her silent question.

Natasha hesitated, then brought over a blanket in the corner and draped it around his shoulders. “Get yourself some sleep. He’s going to need you when he wakes up.” She let herself out wordlessly, once more leaving Bucky to his thoughts, which, given the situation, revolved entirely around Steve.

He didn’t follow her advice, however. Instead, he stayed up as late as he could. It was around four in the morning when his perseverance (or was that stubbornness?) paid off and he was rewarded with the sight of Steve’s eyes flickering open as he woke up.

“Steve!” Bucky gasped, straightening up in his chair as he grasped his best friend’s hand. “Steve, buddy, it’s me.”

Steve turned his head to the side, taking in the sight of his visitor. Unable to do much more with the ventilator still covering his mouth and nose, he smiled and squeezed Bucky’s hand. It was more like a light tap, Steve’s hands still too burned under the gauze to really give a proper squeeze, but it was enough.

“You stupid idiot,” Bucky said, “You scared the hell outta me. Out of all of us. Don’t you ever do something like that again.”

Steve rolled his eyes in what by now, well-versed in Steve’s body language after decades of knowing each other, Bucky knew he meant to say sarcastically, “Okay Bucky, sure thing.” Then Steve softy tapped his hand again and this time he knew it meant, “Didn’t mean to worry you, Bucky.”

“Don’t you worry about me. Worry about yourself. Doc said you’ve got weeks of recovery ahead of you, punk.”

Steve was fading fast, already drifting off after only a few minutes of being awake. He tapped Bucky’s hand again, this time dragging his thumb along Bucky’s palm. “Then let me get some rest, ya jerk,” he seemed to say. His eyes fluttered closed with a smile, his hand still resting in Bucky’s.

“Okay, Steve. Whatever you need, just say the word,” Bucky whispered, but it fell on deaf ears, Steve already out like a light. Bucky sat back in his chair, wrapped the blanket Nat had given him around himself, and closed his eyes. With the knowledge that Steve was going to be okay now, he drifted off to sleep.

 

The sound of a nurse coming in to check Steve’s vitals momentarily woke Bucky up the next morning. With the assurance from her that Steve was doing just fine, Bucky closed his eyes and went back to sleep. He did not wake again until midday, and only then because of an instinctive feeling that someone was watching him. Of course, when he opened his eyes, he found that said person was Steve, smiling at him fondly. Bucky flashed him one of his 100-watt grins in return, happier than anything to see Steve awake.

The doctor and one of the nurses came in shortly after that, and this time she did usher Bucky out. She put a hand up at his protests, assuring him calmly but sternly, “I’ve spoken to Agent Sitwell, and against my wishes you may return once I am finished here. However, I need to treat Captain Rogers at the moment, and I can’t do it with you in the way.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, but it was only after the nod Steve gave him that he left the room, pacing back and forth as he observed Steve through the window. He watched as the doctor spoke to Steve at length, and then removed the mask portion of the ventilation tube, peering down Steve’s throat and pressing a stethoscope to his chest. It seemed she was satisfied with the result because she didn’t make Steve put the mask back on, and in fact, she turned the ventilator off. The nurse helped remove the wound dressings on Steve’s arms and the doctor inspected them, eyebrows going up with a surprised look on her face. The nurse re-dressed the wounds, and after the doctor talked some more with Steve, the nurse also removed the IV drip of morphine.

They exited the room, and Bucky noted that the nurse headed off in the direction of the commissary, no doubt to get Steve food. Bucky approached the doctor, asking in a rush, “How is he?”

The doctor replied in a no-nonsense tone, “Your friend is doing remarkably well, given the extent of his injuries when he first arrived. It seems the Super Soldier Serum has done wonders to speed the rate of his healing. His burns look like they’ve had four days of healing, not one, and the damage from the smoke inhalation is completely gone. At this rate, his broken bones will take three weeks to heal, not three months. Captain Rogers is extremely lucky.” A pause, and then, with a change in tone to something a little more threatening, “While I have not challenged Agent Sitwell’s _request_ —for it is no more than a _request_ —to allow you to sit with the patient, I will not allow you to interfere with his recovery. You are not to keep him up when he should be sleeping, and you are not to agitate or otherwise over-stimulate him physically, mentally, or emotionally. Should I find that you have disobeyed my instructions, rest assured that I will override Agent Sitwell’s request and unequivocally ban you from the entire medical wing. Am I clear?” She narrowed her eyes at the end.

“Yes, ma’am.” Bucky swallowed hard, not wanting to mess with the doctor and get his visiting privileges revoked. “Crystal.”

“Good.” She nodded once. Gesturing to the door, “Go on then.”

Bucky didn’t need to be told twice and scrambled back to Steve’s hospital room. Steve turned his head to track Bucky as he walked in and Bucky couldn’t help it. He broke out into a grin, relieved and happy to see Steve awake and alert. “I’d ask how you’re feeling, but I think I can guess the answer to that one.”

“Like shit,” Steve answered for him anyway, with some sarcasm in his tone. “But less than yesterday, so there’s an improvement.” If any of the Avengers were here, they’d probably gasp and comment on Steve’s swearing, but Bucky knew Steve better than any of them, had known Steve before the Super Soldier Serum, and he wasn’t surprised one bit by it. If everyone else wanted to see Captain America as wholesome and innocent, that was their problem, not his.

Speaking of which, “Your team came by to say hello yesterday, but you were still out of it. I’m sure they’ll visit again today.”

Steve nodded, “Figured as much. How’s Tony doin’?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened momentarily and he fought to unclench it. Even though he knew it wasn’t Tony’s fault and Natasha had reminded him as much, it was difficult to stop the automatic reaction when it came to anyone that might’ve hurt Steve or put him in harm’s way. “He was worried about you when he brought you in,” Bucky said truthfully. “We all were.”

“It wasn’t his fault, Bucky. You have to know that.”

He nodded. “I do.” It just scared him anyway, knowing what Steve went through.

“If there’s one thing that’ll help my recovery, it’ll be you not gettin’ mad at him. I don’t need the stress of worryin’ over you two on top of it.”

“Not mad at him,” Bucky protested quietly. “Just worried about you ‘s all. He and I’ll be fine. I promise, Steve.”

Steve moved to say something more, but then his stomach rumbled unceremoniously. He blushed, a pinkish color flooding his cheeks, despite his weak state. “Don’t suppose they might be sending up lunch soon?”

“I saw a nurse go out for a tray a little while ago. There she is,” Bucky said as the nurse came in, two lunch trays in hand.

She set them down on an adjustable tabletop that was attached to the bed. “Low sodium chicken soup, crackers, extra chicken breast, vegetable medley, and two pudding cups,” she explained, gesturing to the Cap-sized portions on both of the trays. Good. At least the doctors and the attendants weren’t that stupid, aware that Steve would need four times the amount of food as a normal guy. Looking at Bucky sharply, she added, “You make sure he eats all of that, now. I only want to come back to empty trays, got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he promised, agreeing with her easily. He wouldn’t have it any other way. She sniffed at him, only ready to believe it when she saw it, and let herself out.

While Steve ate his food, Bucky entertained him by recounting funny stories from their youth.

“Remember that time I convinced you to climb up on the rooftop with me to see the fireworks for your birthday?” It had been the first year Bucky had come to the orphanage, and one of the first few events that had solidified their friendship.

“Yeah. I was turnin’ twelve that year. Afterward, I remember Sister Margaret screamin’ our names, hollerin’ at us to get to ‘Get down from there before you break your necks!’” Steve mimicked her voice.

“Yeah, and the only reason we came down was ‘cause she threatened to get Sister Mary Eunice,” Bucky laughed while Steve grinned around his pudding cup.

“It sure was hot that summer,” he agreed.

“No more than any other. D’you remember those summers in that six story walk-up we had, right before the war?”

Steve groaned, “Those were awful. And the winters were even worse.”

They were, mostly because they couldn’t afford to turn on the heat, but Bucky didn’t remember them that way. He remembered spending his nights curled up with Steve in his arms, trying to keep him warm so he wouldn’t catch his death by cold. Bucky wondered if Steve disliked the winters because of the cold, or because he’d been forced to share a bed with him, or both.

“We got by okay, right?” Bucky said carefully. He wondered what Steve thought about those times now. “Didn’t mind keeping the heat in. It was easier keepin’ it in, in the winter, than lettin’ it out in the summer.”

“Sorry, I meant because I’d get sick an’ all,” Steve corrected himself hastily, suddenly fascinated with his pudding cup. “You always took good care of me, Buck. It was... nice.”

Bucky didn’t know what to make of that, so he plowed on, “Yeah, well, what else was I gonna do? Let you suffer?” He rolled his eyes. Sometimes Steve made it sound like a chore. Scraping up enough money for medicine might have driven him to worry on more than one occasion, but actually taking care of Steve had never been the problem.

There was an awkward silence while Steve scraped the bottom of his last pudding cup, but mercifully it didn’t last long. They both turned their heads when they heard the door slide open, and found Tony waiting in the doorway hesitantly.

“Cap,” he said in a small voice, trying for a casual tone but not quite making it.

“Come on in,” Steve waved him over.

It was only then that Tony stepped into the room. Bucky easily got up from his chair, placidly gathering up the dishes and trays while Tony took a seat. “Guess this is my cue. I’ll see if there are any more pudding cups in the commissary for ya, Steve.” Bucky gave him a sharp nod before seeing himself out.

As he strolled down the hallway, Bucky very purposefully did not think about his conversation with Steve regarding wintertime in their old apartment. He knew thinking about it, and what it might have meant or not meant to Steve, would get him agitated and that wouldn’t be good for him or for Steve’s recovery if he sensed Bucky’s tension.

Instead, he returned the empty trays to the commissary where he grabbed lunch for himself and an extra pudding cup for Steve. While looking for a place to sit, he spotted his handler. Agent Sitwell beckoned him over with a wave and Bucky had no reason not to comply.

“Agent Barnes,” he greeted Bucky with a nod.

“Agent Sitwell,” he returned with a nod of his own. Settling down with his tray, Bucky went on, “Whatever you said to the doctor and the nurses worked. They only kicked me out once, and that was to remove the ventilator.” Of course, what he was really saying to Sitwell was his version of “Thank you.” Sitwell, well-versed in Bucky-speak, understood and accepted it with ease.

“The doctors told me he’s doing much better. They attributed it to the serum,” Sitwell went on, cutting into his chicken.

“Yeah. I’m just glad he’s alright.” Bucky took a bite out of his sandwich and chewed.

“I’m glad I caught you here,” Sitwell said, abruptly changing the subject. “I was given some intel today. Thought you might want to take a look.” He slid a file over to Bucky, who opened it wordlessly. Bucky absently munched on his fries with one hand while he turned pages of the reports with the other. It was intel on the whereabouts of a few renegade Hydra agents, the ones that had escaped the blast from the warehouse.

Bucky frowned. “There’s not much to go on. The report just has coordinates and sightings from the locals. There aren’t any rap sheets or identification photos.”

“We’re working on it. There’s still a lot of information we have to compile, but I thought I’d let you know we’re gathering intel to prepare a strike on them. It should be short, simple, and sweet, as there seems to be only a few. Romanoff, Barton, and Stark are in on the mission. Thor is in Asgard at the moment and Banner is out for obvious reasons. Coulson says there’s room for one more.”

 _Now_ he knew what Sitwell was getting at. Bucky grinned and gave Sitwell a look. They both knew he was in. There was just one big concern of his, “Steve’s still recovering. He’s gonna need someone to look after him when he's discharged from the hospital.”

Sitwell waved a hand. “The op won’t be ready for another two weeks. By then, Captain Rogers will be well on his way to recovery, according to the doctor’s calculations.”

“Then I’m in,” Bucky said immediately.

“I’ll let Coulson know.” Sitwell gave him a wry smile in return, the matter apparently settled.

They made small talk for the remainder of lunch, and Sitwell even managed to pull a laugh or two from Bucky, which was surprising, given Sitwell’s strict nature and Bucky’s current worries over Steve.

After Steve and SHIELD had brought Bucky in as the Winter Soldier, restored his memories, and given him a place at the organization, Sitwell had been assigned to Bucky as his handler. He wasn’t anything like the pompous assholes whose bidding he had done without question during his time as the Winter Soldier, and he wasn’t even like the commanding officers he’d come across in the army, barking orders the way Colonel Phillips usually had.

Sitwell never once showed any fear of Bucky, and he respected Bucky’s input when planning missions. The first time Bucky had deviated from the plan, Sitwell hadn’t even gotten alarmed, trusting him to have come up with a better option but not having the time to explain it. That first mission, more than anything, helped Bucky to respect and trust Sitwell in return. They’d probably never be friends—neither of them very open to each other, and Sitwell was his commanding officer anyway—but Bucky trusted him more readily than most people, and that was enough. 

They stood up together, lunch trays empty, and returned them to the kitchen. As they walked out together, Sitwell promised him, “I’ll be in contact with you over the next few weeks. Don’t worry, we’ll get them.”

“I’m counting on it,” Bucky said with a smirk. He waved in Sitwell’s direction before splitting off in the corridor, heading back to Steve’s room.

 

As he approached, Bucky saw not just Tony, but all of the Avengers crowded around Steve’s bed, smiling and chattering away with him. Someone must have said something funny because the whole room burst into laughter. It was enough to call the attention of the nurse on duty, and she promptly went into the room and scolded Steve’s visitors. After another verbal exchange, she motioned for them to leave, holding the door open as they said their goodbyes to Steve and exited single file.

Figuring that the nurse, visibly irritated, probably wouldn’t let him in if he tried, Bucky stayed back, watching Steve through the window to his room with one eye. He kept the other on the nurse, waiting for her to leave so that he could sneak back in. However, it seemed that she knew what she was doing when she made the Avengers leave because not five minutes later, Steve was fast asleep, worn out from having his friends visit.

Bucky contented himself to watching from afar for now, the lines on Steve’s face smoothing out as he entered a restful sleep. Bucky was just glad Steve was recovering so quickly. He heard the sound of footsteps and turned to look, only to see Tony Stark come up beside him, watching Steve as well.

“I’ve seen you in there with Steve. You love him,” Tony said simply.

Fear shot through Bucky, his veins turning to ice. He did love Steve—had loved him for a long time now—but he thought he had hidden it so well, buried it so deep that no one but him would mistake his relationship with Steve for anything but brotherly.

“Excuse me?” he said to Tony, trying to muster the appropriate tone of indignation mixed with incredulousness.

“You heard me,” came the mild reply.

“What’s not to love about Captain America?” Bucky said nonchalantly, using another tactic. Trying to appear casual, he opened up his posture and spread his arms out, gesturing to Steve in the room.

Tony laughed shortly, conceding the point, “Aside from supervillains, I don’t think there’s anyone who’s met Cap who didn’t like him.”

“That include you? Your teammates? Do you love him, too?” He tried to shift the focus to Tony, put him on the defensive.

“I do,” Tony readily admitted, nodding his agreement. “We all love Steve.” Then he added, in a voice so low only someone affected by a Super Soldier Serum such as himself could hear, “But I don’t love him the way you do.” Bucky sucked in a breath, working it out through his nose. Blood pounded in his ears as he scrambled for something to say, but before he could come up with a proper retort, a proper excuse, Tony glanced at him sideways adding, “You should tell him. You know, he might not be as adverse to the idea as you think.”

“Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Bucky feigned ignorance, though they both knew he wasn’t fooling Tony in the slightest.

Tony grinned wryly, shaking his head. “Of course you don’t. Your secret’s safe with me. Think about what I said, Barnes.” With that, Tony left, leaving Bucky to the quiet hum of the medical wing, and his own jumbled thoughts on the matter.

 

In the end, Bucky decided that Stark was full of crap and he put the whole conversation out of his mind. Besides, he didn’t have much time to think about it because five days after Steve was admitted to SHIELD’s medical wing, the doctor announced that Steve was fit for discharge. The damage from smoke inhalation had cleared the day the ventilator came off, and the burns had healed four days after that. The rapid progress in both was attributed to the Super Soldier Serum. The only things left to heal were the broken bones, which, if they knitted themselves as fast as his burns had healed, would only take three weeks instead of three months.

Still, that was three weeks Steve was forced to use a pair of crutches to get around Stark Tower, three weeks of not being able to go to the gym to work out or go on a run in Central Park, and three weeks of not being able to go on SHIELD missions. For the most part, Steve succeeded in being self-sufficient, but there were some things—like mealtimes—that were just impossible for him to do alone while he was still on crutches. Of course, that’s where Bucky came in.

Without ever broaching the topic, Bucky became Steve’s unofficially designated caretaker at Stark Tower. Mostly, Bucky played errand boy, carrying things from the pantry to the countertop for Steve to cook dinner with while dangling on the edge of his crutches, or bringing plates of food from the countertop to the table. They were feats that, once so easy for Steve, were now made impossible when his hands were occupied by holding onto his crutches instead of a plate of food or a glass of water.

“What?” Bucky asked abruptly, in the midst of loading up two plates for dinner while his back was turned to Steve.

“Hmm?,” Steve replied absently.

“You’re staring at me,” Bucky accused.

“No I’m not. And you don’t know that,” Steve denied. “You’re not even looking at me!”

Bucky just laughed, “I know you, Steve. I can feel your eyes on me.” He turned around quickly, only to find Steve engrossed in the newspaper that had been lying on the table all day. Bucky still maintained that Steve had definitely looking at him before. “I’m bringin’ the food over. Don’t you worry.”

“Wasn’t worried about that,” Steve replied quietly, folding the newspaper and setting it aside.

Of course, Bucky kinda figured that, but he didn’t know why else Steve woulda been staring at him, so he shrugged it off. Plates in hand, he turned around and headed over to the table where Steve was waiting.

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve said as a plate was placed in front of him.

“Don’t thank me,” Bucky replied, sitting down and tucking into his food. “Can’t believe you still cooked the whole thing, on crutches no less.”

“We all know what it woulda tasted like if you were the one running the kitchen.” Steve jostled him and Bucky returned the gesture, smiling around a mouthful of mashed potatoes as they settled into their meals.

After dinner, they managed to rope Tony and Bruce into playing charades with them for a while. Tony accused Bucky and Steve of cheating, while they maintained that reading the other’s mind was a byproduct of having lived together for so long. One finger pointed at Bruce, Tony groused, “We’re going to have to get better at this. Develop telepathy in the lab or something. I’m not losing to Old Geezers #1 and #2 again!”

“Okay, Tony,” said Bruce with a long suffering sigh, well used to his friend’s antics by now.

Steve and Bucky just looked at each other and shared a mutual grin. Then they proceeded to win the next round of charades.

 

Most of their days proceeded in the same fashion. When Bucky wasn’t busy planning the Hydra op with Sitwell, Coulson, Clint, Natasha, and Tony, he spent the remainder of his time playing nurse to Steve or keeping him company. He knew how Steve was, how he hated to be cooped up inside if he wasn’t on death’s doorstep, and correctly predicted that Steve would end up stir-crazy within a day. When Steve was tired of reading, or his hand needed a break from sketching, Bucky kept Steve entertained the same way he had when they had been younger and Steve frequently cooped up due to illness. They played cards together, or charades with the others, or simply passed the time recalling their early days in Brooklyn, ribbing each other for causing one misadventure or another.

Two weeks later, Steve was predictably annoyed when Bucky explained that he was leaving to go on the Hydra op with Clint, Natasha, and Tony.

“Don’t give me that look, Steve,” Bucky admonished him, striding around the room as he gathered up his equipment for the op.

“I wish I could be there,” Steve sighed, resting on the couch. “I don’t know if there’s anyone who wants to see Hydra gone more ’n I do.”

“You’ll have your day,” Bucky replied, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Hate to say it, but you know Hydra’s been popping up all over the place. This isn’t the last of them. Besides, think about it this way: by the time we get back, you’ll be all healed up and we can celebrate. Do something fun. Go to a ballgame, maybe.” Bucky glanced down at Steve and saw that he had perked up at the prospect. “Just you and me. It’ll be like old times. Whaddya say?”

“Okay,” Steve nodded, finally willing to let his teammates and Bucky go on the op without him. “But I’m holdin’ you to that baseball game.”

Bucky laughed, happy to see Steve back to his usual good humor. He patted Steve’s shoulder again, jostling him with a good natured shove. “Sure thing, Steve.”

 

The mission went off without a hitch. Bucky was used to working with Clint or Natasha on an op, and even though Stark occasionally made Bucky want to tear his hair out when he deviated from the plan and improvised, Clint and Natasha knew how to handle him, letting Bucky focus on the tasks he needed to get done to take out the Hydra agents. In the end, it was a success, and they were able to round up the remainder of the Hydra agents who hadn’t died in the warehouse explosion and bring them to SHIELD for questioning.

The day they got back there was a small party in Stark Tower, not only for their return, but to celebrate the removal of Steve’s cast and his return to active duty. It was a small affair, just the Avengers, Pepper Potts, Agents Sitwell and Coulson, though they didn’t stay very long, and of course, Bucky.  

The day after the party, when Bucky had some free time to plan out when and where he was going to take Steve out for a baseball game, he received a request from Tony’s AI, JARVIS, to come down to Tony’s workshop. Bucky was puzzled when JARVIS wouldn’t elaborate on what it was about, but Bucky went anyway, figuring it was probably some upgrade to his arm that Tony wanted him to try out. When he arrived, he found that Tony had called him down for another reason entirely.

“I heard from a blonde little birdie at the party last night that you two were thinking of going to a baseball game soon,” said Tony, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Bucky nodded, confirming it for Tony. “Yeah? So?”

“Thought you could do with these,” and he slid an envelope across the workbench to Bucky.

When Bucky looked inside, he found two tickets for a home Dodger’s game in three days time. “These are Field Box MVP tickets,” he said, a little confused.

“I would have gotten you two Dugout Club tickets, but even with the in-seat service, I figured you and Steve weren’t really the type to have champagne at your baseball games,” he said with a shrug.

Well, Tony wasn’t wrong about that part. “Why did you...?”

“Tell Steve it’s my way of saying sorry. For the botched up mission, three weeks ago,” Tony tried to remain nonchalant about it, but he stared intently at the ground.

Bucky nodded. “I will.” Still, even though Stark had done it out of good intentions, there was a part of Bucky that was irked by it. _He_ wanted to be the one to buy tickets for Steve, and really, properly treat him to a baseball game, like the one they’d gone to all those years ago, when he’d just gotten a raise and no one knew life was about to get worse with the advent of the war.

Tony interrupted his thoughts, adding slyly, “Don’t think I’m going to do all your homework for you, Barnes. You still have to find a way to get him out to LA.”

Bucky looked up to find Stark grinning, an amused glint in his eye. He responded in kind, “Don’t worry, I think I can handle that. Thanks for the tickets.” He waved with the hand that was holding the envelope, before making his way up to Steve’s apartment. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Steve’s face when he told Steve about the game.

 

Steve had, predictably, been enthusiastic when Bucky told him they were going to a Dodgers game. He hadn’t told Steve yet that they had Field Box MVP tickets, hoping to surprise him once they got there. Right now, he was looking for Steve; the quinjet was going to be on the roof in ten minutes and he couldn’t find his best friend anywhere.

“Steve?” He paused, listening for a reply, and then continued to check all the rooms in Steve’s apartment. “Steve, where are you?” After no reply, Bucky remembered he was in Stark Tower. “Aw, forget this. JARVIS, where’s Steve?”

“Captain Rogers is currently in Mister Stark’s workshop. Shall I call him for you?”

“No, I’ll go get him. Thanks, buddy,” he said, heading back out into the hallway to take the elevator.

“It is my pleasure, Mister Barnes.”

“Ugh, I hate that formal ‘Mister’ crap. Just call me Bucky, will ya?”

“As you wish... _Bucky_.”

Bucky snorted to himself, the hesitancy in JARVIS’ voice evident even as the AI tried to hide it. He stepped into the waiting elevator car, hit the button for Stark’s basement workshop, and then hit the turbo button, which got him down in half the time it would normally take.

As soon as he arrived, Bucky surveyed the scene behind the glass wall that separated Tony’s workshop from the hallway. Steve was wearing his leather jacket and Dodger’s baseball cap, ready to go. His Captain America suit lay on the workbench between Tony and Steve, but whatever Avengers business they’d been discussing looked like it had finished long ago, both their postures far more relaxed and casual as they continued to talk.

Bucky couldn’t make out the conversation from behind the glass, but he didn’t need to. With Steve’s back to him, Tony noticed Bucky first, abruptly halting his conversation. Stark tipped his head in Bucky’s direction, Steve turning around to follow his line of sight.

Waiting at the door, Bucky heard the lock _snick_ , no doubt on Tony’s verbal command to JARVIS, and he pushed it open. “You two done in here? The quinjet’s comin’ around in five, Steve.”

Steve looked back at Tony, a somewhat uneasy expression on his face. Tony nodded at Steve in some silent confirmation, waving his hand. “Uh, yeah. We’re done here. I’m ready,” Steve said, almost, but not quite meeting Bucky’s eyes.

What the hell? Was he getting cozy with Stark before Bucky came in or something? He hoped not to high hell. The idea of it made Bucky’s heart constrict, a little current of anxiety flicking through him before it was gone. Bucky didn’t have time to examine the idea closely, though, so he held the door open for Steve and motioned with his head.

To Steve’s retreating back, Tony called out glibly, “You two kids have fun now! Think about what I said, Cap.”

Steve nodded silently and Bucky followed him out, punching the button for the elevator. The car opened immediately and they stepped inside, Bucky punching the turbo button again to get them back to the rooftop quickly. “What was that all about?” he asked Steve.

“Nothin’. Tony just wanted to talk shop about the modifications he’s making on the suit. He wants to make it more fire resistant, after what happened last time.”

Bucky studied him carefully, noting Steve’s perfectly schooled expression that gave nothing away. And that, ironically, was how he knew Steve was lying, or at least omitting something. He let out a puff of air, saying, “You forget who I am? I know that look on you and you’re such a liar, Steve. Come on, Stark said something else to you, didn’t he?”

Steve looked at Bucky with wide eyes—all the proof Bucky needed—but before he could voice his protest, the elevator door opened and they had to walk single file up the narrow staircase that led to the rooftop, effectively ending the conversation.

Sure enough, a quinjet was parked and waiting for them. The pilot was one of Sitwell’s junior agents that he was training up, an Agent Gray who owed Bucky a favor after losing a bet with him just before the whole exploding warehouse Hydra mess had started.

“I still can’t believe you got a quinjet to take us to Los Angeles,” Steve said, shaking his head as they clambered inside. “We could have just gone to a Mets game or something.” The idea of going to a Yankees game was unthinkable for both of them.

It was a deliberate attempt to re-direct the conversation and Bucky let him. He’d rather not think about what Steve and Tony talked about in their free time, anyway. Bucky had more important things on his mind, namely making sure they got to L.A. on time.

Bucky went ahead to check in with Agent Gray briefly, asking if he was ready to go, to which Gray gave him a thumbs up. Returning to Steve, seated in the back of the plane, Bucky replied, “Yeah, but you like the Dodgers better. Neither of us have seen a game of theirs this century, and besides, it’s tradition.” He slung his arm around Steve, who looked at him sideways and smiled. “Plus, don’t tell me you don’t know all the stats for the new guys already.”

That earned him a laugh from Steve, who leaned back, relaxing into Bucky’s touch. Bucky swallowed hard and did his best not to read into it. He distracted himself by paying particularly close attention to Steve’s words as he enthusiastically went on about the Dodgers’ lineup. Unsurprisingly, Steve had already read up on the stats for the team and familiarized himself with the players, the coach, and the current management.

“You’re such a goober, Steve,” he said teasingly with a hint of fondness in his tone. Unconsciously, he looked over at Steve with a gaze of fond admiration, marveling at how much they’d been through, from dangerous, life-threatening situations on missions to watching fireworks on the rooftop of the orphanage, away from the watchful gaze of the nuns.

Coming out of his reverie, Bucky thought he saw Steve return the same soft, fond gaze, but it must have been a trick of his imagination. Bucky realized there had been silence for too long but Steve jostled him to cover the awkward pause. He ribbed Bucky good-naturedly as he brought up the large baseball collection that Bucky had maintained in his youth.  “You’re callin’ _me_ a goober? I’m pretty sure you’re the one who spent all of his money from making newspaper rounds on baseball cards, instead of savin’ up for a bicycle!”

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Bucky returned, feigning innocence. “I’m sure if I had a baseball collection, the other kids would have stolen it.”

“That’s because you hid it in the floorboards under our bed!” Steve replied, laughing.

Bucky grinned in return, dropping the act. “How else was I supposed to hide them away from the grubby hands of Nelson McDougall?”

Steve laughed again, launching into another memory of the nuns as the plane took them closer and closer to Los Angeles.

 

Going at Mach 4, it took them less than an hour to arrive, with time to spare before the game started. Agent Gray landed them at a SHIELD facility not too far from the stadium so it was just a short cab ride from there. It wasn’t until they got to the stadium that Bucky pulled out the tickets and handed one to Steve.

It took him a beat to read the seat assignment on it, but when he did, he looked up at Bucky with a shocked and excited expression on his face. “Bucky, these are _Field Box MVP_ tickets. How did you get these?”

Bucky took the moment to savor Steve’s reaction. He contemplated making up a story, but just as he knew when Steve was lying, Steve knew when he was. He sighed and admitted, “They’re from Tony.”

“Tony?” Steve said, furrowing his brow. “He didn’t say a word about them to me.”

“You musta said something to him about goin’ to see a game, ‘cause he gave me these. Said he wanted to say sorry for what happened on that mission.”

“Oh Tony,” Steve shook his head, a look of fond exasperation on his face. “He would do something like this.”

“Hey, what about me over here?” Bucky said jokingly, but trying to draw Steve’s thoughts away from Stark all the same; he didn’t like that idea at all. Putting on some false conceit, “I still got us a ride.”

Steve laughed, a full rich sound, and Bucky was pleased. “It’s great, Buck.” Steve clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

They found their seats easily, and even Bucky had to admit that Stark did a good job picking them out (or his assistant did, or whoever).

“Bucky, these seats are _perfect_!” Steve marveled. “We can see everything from here.”

The view from just to the left of the dugout was, indeed, perfect, and close to the action. Bucky also appreciated that the other attendees in this section appeared to be Hollywood starlets and other assorted famous people, and a good thirty minutes into the game, no one had bothered Steve for a signature yet, or even looked their way surreptitiously. Sometimes having a connection to Stark had its advantages, after all.

By the end of the second inning, he was still surprised that no one had identified them as Captain America and his ‘sidekick,’ Bucky Barnes, given that they’d been hooting and hollering most of the time. They cheered on the Dodgers and lobbed insults at the opposing team that, given their proximity to the infield, the Phillies might have actually been able to hear.

As the innings came and went, they munched on caramel popcorn. Toward the bottom of the bag, Bucky decided to goof off, lobbing some of it at Steve, who threw pieces back at him, until they both had popcorn sticking to their hair.

Then, halfway through the fifth inning—the Dodgers trailing behind the Phillies, 4-0—things at the stadium got a little interesting. The Dodgers were switching from the outfield to the infield and there was a lull in the game. The large Jumbotron screen had the words “Kiss Cam” scrawled across the top and the camera zoomed in on two very enthusiastic Dodgers fans, not too far down from where Bucky and Steve were. The two men were sporting Dodgers jerseys, holding up foam #1 fingers, and waving pennant flags.

At first glance, Bucky thought the kiss cam had made a mistake, zooming in on two men, but then he saw that they were holding hands tightly. As they showed up on the Jumbotron, one of them noticed and pointed it out to the other, who, for some reason, didn’t look surprised at all. The reason became clear immediately as he set aside his #1 foam finger and let go of his partner’s hand to first stand up... and then get down on one knee. The other man gasped, bringing a hand up to his mouth. Although the kiss cam couldn’t pick up what was said, the intent was clear. Several minutes later, the man kneeling brought out a small square box and gently slid a ring onto his partner’s hand. The crowd went wild as they kissed, Bucky and Steve both clapping along for them.

“I think that’s great,” Steve said once the noise had died down, turning toward Bucky.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “Every time I see two guys or two girls holdin’ hands or kissin’ on the street I start lookin’ to see if there’s any cops I should be distractin’, and then I remember it doesn’t matter anymore.” It wasn’t _illegal_ anymore. “It _is_ great. Hope they have a long, happy life ahead of them,” he added wistfully, thinking of his own feelings for Steve that would never be reciprocated.

Steve nodded. “Ya know, when they make me do those interviews for Avengers PR, they always ask if I miss the way things used to be. I mean, I do miss some of it, mostly the people we knew, but they also forget it was before desegregation, before women had gone to work in factories for the war, and before the LGBT movement. Even if I had _found_ a guy back then, I wouldn’ta been able to kiss him anywhere in public, let alone in front of a huge crowd on a Jumbotron.” Steve shook his head and twisted his mouth, which Bucky knew to mean Steve thought he was talking too much. Steve shrugged. “It’s just nice, is all.”

“Yeah, it is real nice,” he agreed, and what Bucky wouldn’t do to be the one Steve kissed in public, but he squashed the thought. “And I’ll be happy for you when you find that special guy. Or gal. Don’t worry, Steve. Man or woman, you’ll find someone you can kiss at a baseball game this century,” and he clapped Steve on the shoulder in what he hoped Steve thought of as friendly support.

“Thanks.” Steve gave him a small, somewhat sad smile, his gaze turned to Bucky. All Bucky could do was stare back helplessly, but he must have lingered too long because Steve ducked his head and turned his body, and his attention, back to the game.

Trying hard not to stare at Steve any longer—which was difficult because, come on, it was Steve here—Bucky lapsed into thought for a while.

After Steve and Natasha had found Bucky operating as the Winter Soldier for Lukin, and after SHIELD had unscrambled his brains (as much as possible at any rate), Steve had finally sat Bucky down and told him he was bi and that he’d gone on a few dates with other guys, mostly SHIELD agents, here in the 21st century. It had been a hell of a day, too, because Steve had gone about it all wrong and right up until the last minute Bucky thought Steve was gonna say something really awful, like he couldn’t look past what Bucky had done as the Winter Soldier and he couldn’t hang around Bucky anymore. Blurting out “That’s all?” when Steve had finally told him wasn’t his best response, but he’d been too relieved it wasn’t something more serious.

Bucky certainly didn’t care; the war had taught him none of that shit mattered as long as a guy could take out the enemy and lead his squad to safety, and during his time in the Red Room he’d seen more than one upper echelon official engaged with a male lover (and on a few occasions Bucky was ordered to stand guard as security during their elicit trysts). Besides, he’d been having Steve-sexual problems of his own for more than seventy years. Who was he to judge?

He shook his head to clear it and returned his attention to the game, joining Steve in cheering as the Dodgers made a few good plays, bringing the score up 4-4 in a tie.

When they got hungry again during the next inning, Bucky left and returned with something like eight hotdogs, four baskets of fries and as many Cokes. (He could have gotten beer instead, but a tall glass of Coke had always been tradition for them at a ballgame, and Bucky wasn’t about to break it now.)

“Ballpark dogs!” Steve cried happily, relieving Bucky of some of the food as he sat back down. “My favorite.”

“I know,” Bucky smiled, and oh, didn’t he know it? Steve _loved_ ballpark hot dogs, and no game was complete without them. “They’re alright, I guess,” he said facetiously, teasing Steve.

“Aw, come on! Ballpark dogs are the _best_. You know you love ‘em.”

“They taste better with you,” Bucky replied automatically, clearly not thinking, even if it was the truth. He mentally cringed as soon as the words were out, wishing he could take them back. Steve looked at him funny and, panicking, he shoved a basket of fries under Steve’s nose and grumbled good-naturedly, “Quit yappin’ and eat your food!”

That seemed to distract Steve nicely, who took the basket of fries. Steve grabbed a handful and munched on a couple, lobbing the others at Bucky’s head.

“Hey!” Bucky protested even as he laughed, deflecting the shot. Quickly, he grabbed a few before Steve had the forethought to pull the basket away from his reach and threw them back. Steve laughed and whatever tension that had been there a moment ago disappeared as they settled down enough to eat their food.

A little while later, with the Dodgers up 6-4, the bottom of the sixth found Bucky and Steve laughing along at the antics of the Phillies’ mascot, who was attempting to dance to the music, Gangnam style. As their laughter died down, Steve turned to Bucky and said slowly, “You know, I had a really good time today. The last time we did this, you had just gotten a raise down at the docks, I was still skinny, and the war hadn’t come to America yet.” He smirked and added, “And I think the Dodgers won last time, too. This—this was real nice.”

“Yeah? I’m glad we got out to a ball game together,” he smiled, happy to hear it from Steve. It was another successful baseball outing planned by one James Barnes, and another opportunity to remind himself of what (or who, rather) he couldn’t have.

They were both quiet again, but then Steve asked, his voice oddly high-pitched and sounding puzzled, “Not that I mind flying across the country to see the Dodgers, but Bucky? Why’d you bring me here today?”

“Whaddya mean, Steve?” Bucky tried to feign innocence. “I told you I was gonna take you to a game after your recovery, so I did.”

“Yeah, but we coulda gone to a Mets game and you know it. And I don’t buy that it’s just ‘cause Stark gave you the tickets or ‘cause I like the Dodgers.”

“Steve,” Bucky said, turning serious. He looked at Steve straight on and said, “You almost _died_ on that mission. I almost _lost_ you. We _all_ did. I’m pretty sure the Avengers would be lost without you, and considering that I was working for the Soviets while you were under, I actually _know_ that I’d be lost without you. I’d take you to a hundred baseball games and fly you to L.A. every day if it meant you’d be safe out there in the field.” He paused. “You and me, we’ve been through everything together and I guess I just wanted to show that I care. Steve, you’re my best friend.”

Steve’s face fell dramatically and Bucky couldn’t figure out what the hell he’d said wrong. “Yeah, you’re my best friend, too, Buck.” Steve said it with a smile, but the words came out hollowly.

“What did I do? What did I say wrong, Steve?” Bucky’s anxiety rose a little, not sure when or how things had gone south.

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” Steve protested. “I just thought—” he broke off, nose and forehead wrinkling in thought. When Bucky didn’t say anything, he started again, “Tony said—” and stopped himself, shaking his head.

“What? What did Tony say? Do I need to kick Stark’s ass?” Bucky just knew this had something to do with whatever Tony and Steve had been talking about before Bucky had gone down to Stark’s workshop.

Steve was resolutely not looking at Bucky anymore, but his eyes weren’t on the game, either. Bucky followed his line of sight up to the Jumbotron where the newly engaged couple from before was on the kiss cam again. They obligingly gave the camera another kiss before it panned away, dissolving back into the game.

Suddenly, something clicked in the back of his mind. Was Steve really—? Did he mean—? Bucky thought of the way they’d always been, familiar and touchy with each other, and then he thought about the way they’d been recently during Steve’s recovery. There’d been times when Bucky had been turned away, focused on prepping a meal for Steve and he’d been _sure_ Steve was looking at him, only to find Steve turned around and engrossed in the newspaper. He remembered helping Steve get in and out of some of his clothes, both their hands lingering just a little, but he’d thought it was all in his mind. Then there was the way he had caught Steve looking at him all day, on the plane ride and during the game, his gaze lingering a little too long. And here, Bucky thought _he’d_ been staring, making Steve uncomfortable!

Then Bucky thought about what Stark had said weeks ago, back in the hospital. He still wasn’t sure if he believed Stark, and the scant amount of evidence wasn’t enough to be sure, so he was either about to do something brilliant or something monumentally stupid.

Before he could think about the consequences, he took Steve’s hand in his. To his immense relief, Steve didn’t pull away, instead adjusting his grip to hold onto Bucky’s hand more comfortably as they turned to face each other.

“If I’m readin’ this right, I think we’ve both been a little stupid, lately,” Bucky said. Steve didn’t say anything, just nodded, high bright blue eyes so painfully sincere and full of hope that Bucky’s brain almost shorted out again from staring. “You’re more than just my best friend, Steve.”

“Yeah?” Steve sounded a little short of breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“Yeah. Tony said somethin’ to me, when you were in the hospital and—look, I’m no good at sayin’ this so we’re gonna figure this out later, but right now, I just—” Bucky broke off but he leaned in a little and Steve moved to follow, closing the distance between them until they were just a few inches apart. Impulsively, he reached his hand up to cup the side of Steve’s face, the stubble rough and the skin warm under his touch. “I’m gonna kiss you now.” He waited for Steve’s nod and then his lips were on Steve’s, sweet and perfect and everything he could have ever hoped for.

Bucky ran his tongue over Steve’s lips, soft and full and then he bit Steve’s lower lip gently, tugging it a bit, silently asking for more. Steve obliged, parting his lips for Bucky. Steve’s mouth was warm and wet and he tasted like Coca-Cola and ballpark hot dogs and it was _so very Steve_.

There’d be plenty of time to talk about it afterwards, to sort out their feelings and figure out what this meant for both of them, but that would come later. Somewhere in the distance the Dodgers hit a home run and the crowd was buzzing faintly in their ears, but in that moment, Bucky and Steve couldn’t be bothered, and all that mattered was that one, perfect kiss between them.

 _Fin_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Clara,” the girl who gives Steve the recipe, is a reference to Clara Cannucciari, who became a YouTube sensation by cooking recipes that she and her family made during the Great Depression. Her book, _Clara's Kitchen: Wisdom, Memories, and Recipes from the Great Depression_ , is filled with some great Depression-era stories, and an excellent pasta fagioli recipe. Clara passed away on November 29, 2013.
> 
> “Cappellini” is a reference to the lovely Anna Cappellini, an ice dancer currently paired with Luca Lanotte, representing Italy.
> 
> Historically, I’m not sure if the Italians and the Irish would have lived in the same neighborhoods of Brooklyn, but 1) Steve and Bucky were poor and desperate for a cheap place to rent, and 2) It’s Steve. I don’t think he’d care about that stuff.
> 
> There really was a Dodgers-Phillies game at Ebbetts Field on Sunday, May 25, 1941, with the score 8-4 in the Dodgers’ favor. (Though I don’t know if that’s the May game Steve refers to in the movie; they played several games against the Phillies at Ebbetts Field in late May.) I used [this](http://www.retrosheet.org/boxesetc/1941/B05250BRO1941.htm) report to reference the action in the game.
> 
> The _Fibber McGee and Molly_ episode that I referenced was originally broadcast on [May 20 th, 1941](http://www.otr.net/?p=fibb), the Tuesday before Bucky and Steve listened to it in the fic. Artistic liberties were obviously taken with that; perhaps Bucky and Steve listened to a re-broadcast issued for those who missed the Tuesday time? For those who are interested, Bucky mentions the _Fibber McGee and Molly_ broadcasts in the [Captain America video game](http://gdijefferson.tumblr.com/post/69365348858/rescuing-bucky-in-chapter-7-of-captain-america). Apparently he is not impressed with Howard’s short range wireless radio communication receivers. ;)
> 
> Recovery times for Steve were calculated based on the “4x faster” metabolism that he has, and the typical rate of recovery from his injuries for a normal person.
> 
> The summer that Steve turned 12 was indeed [one of the hottest](http://weather-warehouse.com/WeatherHistory/PastWeatherData_NewYorkCentralPrkObsBelv_NewYork_NY_January.html) of the decade in New York City.
> 
> The "present day" game against the Phillies is fictitious. (Though the Dodgers did win all but one of their games against the Phillies in 2013!)


End file.
